


Care For A Round Of Gwent?

by Sevent



Series: Emhyralt - The Witcher Bingo [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, Gwent (The Witcher), Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Smut, Strip Games, Strip Gwent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28082532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevent/pseuds/Sevent
Summary: Emhyr doesn't know anything about gwent, to Geralt's utter disbelief. Being a gwentmaster, of course he attempts to teach him how to play. The spirit of the game requires stakes though, and he's not about to bet on thousands of florens on the word that Emhyr doesn't carryspare change.A great alternative comes to mind.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Emhyralt - The Witcher Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057307
Comments: 26
Kudos: 190





	Care For A Round Of Gwent?

**Author's Note:**

> Bingo prompt: _Strip Gwent_
> 
> **Disclaimer:** No game spoilers here, but as most of you only know my writing from the Netflix show: Emhyr's existence is one big-ass book/story spoiler, so if you don't know or you haven't played the games, don't look him up.

“Care for a round of gwent?” 

Geralt’s made such a habit of speaking that infamous phrase at the end of every conversation. Ever since a priest of the Eternal Fire pulled out a gwent deck for a match with him, he will quite literally throw the question at _anyone—_ because if a priest knows gwent, _everyone_ knows gwent.

The Emperor of Nilfgaard looks up from his papers with a most unimpressed look. “What are you spouting about now?”

“Gwent?” Emhyr’s gold brown eyes remain an impassive force. “The Continent’s favorite card game?”

“Are you bored?”

In utter bafflement, Geralt crosses his arms, brows raised as high as they can go. “A little. You seriously don’t know what gwent is?” 

He was mostly joking when he asked Emhyr to play, truly expecting an annoyed dismissal to his quirky interests. How is it possible that the most powerful man in the world, with a legion of informants and spies in his command, has never heard of a popular card game? It’s a strategy game too. He would think it right up Emhyr’s alley.

Geralt has played with Nilfgaardian soldiers before. Even a general. It is downright offensive if Emhyr is being serious.

And he definitely is, going by the hard silence he gives the witcher.

“You know what.” Geralt sits up straight in the most comfortable, most luxurious sofa his bottom has ever had the fortune to lay upon. “I’ve nothing else to do. _You_ have nothing else to do. I know it because for the last half of our conversation, you’ve pretended to ignore me instead of kicking me out. I’ll teach you how it works.”

Opposite him sits Emhyr, on a comparatively humble couch, putting his papers down to address the witcher properly. His ruse has been exposed anyway, he cannot hide behind work. 

“I have yet to express interest in your game.”

“Oh, don’t pretend like you’re not curious. You devour new information like a squirrel hordes nuts for winter.”

Emhyr blinks, his brows furrowing deeper. “What is that analogy supposed to mean?”

“That you’re a squirrel, obviously.” 

At this point, he’s half testing how much insolence he can get away with before Emhyr _actually_ kicks him out, and half genuinely wanting to play Emhyr on something that for once, he is more experienced in. It’s not as if Geralt gets much practice nowadays, what with earning a reputation for robbing people blind on high bets. 

He really should give the cards a break if he doesn’t want to be barred from every tavern in the north.

As Emhyr takes too long to disagree with the prospect of a game, Geralt goes ahead and fishes around his pouch for his collection of cards, for ever carried on his person. 

“Let’s start with the basics,” he says, spreading a handful of deck sets on the table in front of them. 

Had someone told him a year ago that he would be teaching the rules of gwent to the emperor of half the known world, Geralt would have pulled a muscle from laughing. Just picturing himself, teaching Emhyr _anything—_ the sun would first have to rise from the west for that to happen.

And yet here he is, explaining the difference between leader cards and playable unit cards, the abilities of each deck faction, and how it all interacts on a playing field. All to Emhyr, who low and behold, asks him more questions on how it works. 

It’s downright funny. When did they become so familiar that his jokes at Emhyr’s expense actually became jokes, and not mocking jabs? And when did Emhyr grow a patient, lenient bone for his impish antics?

“So the goal is to win two out of three rounds.” Geralt taps the top corners of his model cards, where a number sits circled. “The total points of both sides are tallied at the end of a round, with ties counting as a win for both sides.”

“And what is the point of this game?”

Geralt shrugs. “Win money, most of the time. Players bet on starting.”

Having understood that much, on their first test play, Emhyr immediately tries to bet two thousand florens, to which Geralt replies with a sputtering, “Oh-ho no, I’m not risking a lifetime debt to you. You don’t have spare change in your pockets?”

“Witcher, I’m the Emperor of the North and South. A thousand florens is my spare change.”

The Great Sun shines bountiful in Nilfgaard, is what they say. Maybe they’re talking literally about their mountains of gold, glittering under light. What an absurdity, _‘a thousand florens is my spare change’._ Geralt can’t even bet a third of that. 

But, the spirit of the game must be respected, and the spirit demands stakes. If not money, they’ll have to bet on something else. 

It is in that moment that Geralt is swept by the memory of the last time he played coinless and drunk. That’s _one_ tavern that will never take him back. Oh, but what an uproar of a night that was.

“Fuck it then. We’ll play it the poor man’s way.”

“Which is?”

“Strip gwent,” Geralt says with a reminiscing smile. “I lose a match, I take something off. Same for you. Those stakes good enough for you?”

Emhyr genuinely seems to consider him. 

That, more than anything, slaps the foolish humor out of Geralt’s noggin and replaces it with concern—for his own ass and what he’s potentially begun.

“The poor man’s way it is.” 

“Really? You’re not gonna negotiate for different stakes?” Emhyr turns his unblinking eyes on him in unspoken exasperation. “Alright, never mind. Pick a deck.”

Of course his first choice is the black sun-emblazoned stack of the _Nilfgaardian Empire_ faction.

Geralt gives him a reasonable amount of time to read each card in the faction—and to cringe at some of the names in them. Must be quite disturbing to find many of his allies and personal enemies incorporated casually into a card game. Though, he says nothing of the cards with his own painted likeness. Geralt supposes he’s desensitized to seeing his own face everywhere. Gods, _he’s_ desensitized to seeing Emhyr’s face everywhere.

Once Emhyr is prepared, Geralt readies his usual cards, a tournament-winning _Northern Realms_ deck, with excitement. He won’t be throwing any matches tonight out of pity. Emhyr may be a total novice, but the man is a fast reader and an even faster thinker. 

Being the actual experienced player, however, Geralt wins their first match by a strong margin. 

“What were you doing?” The witcher brings himself closer to their makeshift board and the mess of cards in Emhyr’s battlefield. “It’s like you were throwing everything in with no strategy.”

“On the contrary, that was precisely the idea. If I am to learn quickly, then I must play extremely, to learn what does and doesn’t work.” 

With that said, Emhyr takes a moment to switch a few of his cards out.

“Well I won anyway. Which means you take something off.”

Those are the rules they set. Emhyr abides by them. He takes off from his shoulders his _literal_ —to Geralt’s ever tickled sides—chain of command, setting it on the table, out of the way of the wine and the glasses brought out by a perplexed servant’s hand.

“Want to test out more of your ‘extreme playing’ method?” the witcher teases. 

“Of course. Let us begin again.”

Emhyr wins two rounds in a row after that—he learned about the annoying perks of spy cards and decoys—so Geralt shuts his mouth about his ridiculous play method and takes off his gloves and his boots, counting the pairs as single articles.

By the second half of that last round, Geralt put on his serious face, actually studying the pattern of his opponent’s apparent madness. Emhyr is a clever orchestrator of chaos, which comes as no surprise. Interesting that even in a game of cards, he still tries to keep his train of thought an elusive puzzle. 

But Geralt didn’t become the Passiflora gwentmaster by twiddling his fingers and folding when an opponent confounded him. There’s always a pattern. More than that, there’s a limit to which cards can be played. No player can sustain a completely random pairing of cards.

On their next go around, Geralt switches his deck for the _Scoia’tael_ faction. Emhyr is growing fond of the many spy cards of his chosen faction. The advantage of drawing more cards is simply unmatched, but with _Scoia’tael,_ a deck Emhyr has yet to familiarize himself with, those spies won’t do him good. They’ll become Geralt’s. 

He’ll catch Emhyr unawares of what his new cards can do.

Even with the sudden change in his play style, Geralt barely wins that game. It’s down to a two point difference, with both of their last cards played. 

Two points is not the win he anticipated. But a win is a win, and Emhyr is proving to be a courteous loser. The sight of him finally parting with that long coat of his, the one that reaches down to his ankles even in the dead of summer, is a fine reward.

“Why are you smiling, witcher?” Emhyr hangs the coat from the back of his chair.

“Just appreciating the rare view.”

The single brow that climbs Emhyr’s face carries its own question.

Geralt’s joy is short-lived. The following match, he’s obliterated with two forced ties—as _Nilfgaard_ is the only deck that automatically _wins_ ties.

“How did I lose that? I could have sworn you used all your _Scorches.”_

Without looking up, Emhyr answers, “You counted it from my previous deck.”

And with that, he takes to silently changing cards again.

Geralt grumbles low to himself, seeing the true strength in an unpredictable deck player. Emhyr keeps _switching out cards._ He forms a strategy in the moment, and Geralt, for all his experience, can’t counter a strategy that hasn’t yet been planned.

At the sound of shuffling cards, the witcher squares up. He meets Emhyr’s lofty stare. Now is no time to be doubting himself. 

“Alright. No more going easy on you because you’re a beginner.” Geralt takes a long swig of the wine, nearly slamming it down on the wood, which earns him a strong, disapproving look. “You’re going down.”

Four rounds later, Emhyr has not yet ‘gone down’. In fact, it is Geralt who sits shirt- and pantless now, sweating on his last piece of clothing, his braies.

But not for long.

He was so sure he had it. The points on his melee row were triply enhanced. They each held onto one final card, and his was a _Weather_ card that if played, would negatively impact his own set up. Left with no choice, Geralt passed the round, but he was confident in his win. Emhyr couldn’t beat him unless he had the same _Weather_ card in Geralt’s hand. The man had to concede defeat.

And then Emhyr played his last card. 

Needless to say, Geralt jinxed himself.

The new _Weather_ effect brought down both their scores, but in Emhyr’s case, it was a worthy sacrifice thanks to the lone card on his field which would not be affected by it—of all things, a nilfgaardian _Geralt of Rivia._

“It appears I have won.”

This has got to be some sort of trick. He can’t believe Emhyr’s luck with drawing cards. 

“Is this really the first time you’ve played this game?”

Emhyr blinks. He somehow manages to make such a simple and minute movement of his eyes come off affronted. “It is. I would not lie for something so trivial as my experience with a card game.”

Geralt holds his face in his hands. “Well,” he says muffled through his fingers, “You play better than some aficionados I’ve met.”

“As you are an aficionado yourself, I take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as a compliment.”

“But,” Emhyr continues as if uninterrupted, “That won’t save you from fulfilling your end of the bet.”

“Fuck, thought you’d let it go.”

“It’s the principle.”

“Principle of what? Gambling?”

Admittedly, Emhyr _did_ bet his own smallclothes...or rather, he bet on the possibility of getting down to his smallclothes. It is just that his night was full of winning streaks, as is evidenced by his lacking state of undress. 

“Fine,” Geralt yields. “You played honorably, I guess. I’ll keep my word.”

For all the strange and unusual moves Emhyr pulled playing, no sleight of hand was involved. Unless that’s another of his hidden talents, Emhyr beat him fairly.

And so Geralt pays the price with the very last piece of clothing on his body.

At least it’s warm in the room. Would be awkward to not only sit bare skinned in the emperor’s presence, but shivering too. 

Before he can muster up the spirit to accomplish the bet though, Emhyr rises from his seat with a curt, “A moment,” and, contrary to Geralt’s expectations that he meant to call for more wine, he rounds the table to stand between Geralt’s pale, outstretched legs.

Geralt looks up with pause. “Uh. What’re you doing?”

“Just appreciating the rare view,” he parrots from Geralt’s earlier cajole. The difference is that he keeps his tone grave all while staying where he stands, up close and personal in a way he’s never been before.

Geralt takes off his braies with a frustrated sigh. That’s not fair, he thinks with a pouting fall of his lips. Emhyr’s already won the game. He doesn’t need to keep playing him with his teasing words, his stupid sleeves rolled up halfway up his forearms to avoid wine stains, and his stupid tight trousers that have never seen the light of day from under his stupid ankle-low coat, presently discarded.

It’s the most casual he’s ever seen him. The most relaxed, he reckons. All because Geralt makes a pretty fool of himself—and oh, ogling the emperor is about to make himself into a worse fool.

His face can’t blush, but his dick makes up fantastically for it, standing proud and darkening to an embarrassingly strong shade of red. 

Emhyr smiles into his wine glass, and it’s only then that Geralt realizes how he’d been drinking liberally through their final rounds of gwent. Figures he relaxes by brutally breaking apart his opponent’s psyche through the guise of a game, and finishing it off with the finest Toussaintois rouge. 

“This, reward of yours has taken an unforeseen turn,” Emhyr says to him confusingly, as he is still very much inside the triangle of Geralt’s legs.

Geralt purposely misinterprets what he means with an innocent tilt of his head. “Considering we were playing strip gwent, one of us was bound to end up naked. I’m a terrible gambler in that I don’t know when to give up.” 

It’s the truth. On dice, he’ll either get rich on a winning streak, or come out of it with an empty coin purse and a bruised pride. Gwent is more to do with skill than chance, but should he lose to a bad hand, he won’t stop playing until he wins his money back. Or in the case of his clothes, until he evens the odds—and no odds are about to be evened now.

“That was not a complaint,” Emhyr says with a narrowing gaze, akin to the ones he gives his war maps. “Merely an observation.”

And then he frees his hand of the glass to ghost it under Geralt’s chin.

That single touch throws his head into spinning. It’s barely there, and yet his skin heats up like glowing metal. 

Emhyr doesn’t _just_ initiate contact, not without a goal in mind. The pleased hum he shares seeing Geralt’s stunted silence is all Geralt needs to know he’s right, and there’s a scheme forming behind those gold brown eyes.

The last couple games have been the most intense the witcher's ever played, and he’s been in high stakes tournaments with thousands of florens on the line, for crying out loud. Being under Emhyr's studious stare, it’s like a second kind of game’s begun. One _he’s_ entering blind—and more than a little excited for.

It takes him a minute to conjure up enough brain power to talk, especially as Emhyr’s grip slowly becomes more solid with the passing seconds. 

“You gonna do something then, or stick to observations?”

Maybe it’s a little cheeky, but that’s what _he_ knows Emhyr responds to most—a hint of playful rudeness that no one ever dares to test with the emperor. 

The fingers on his chin turn hard, and tug higher and higher until he’s forced to stand. “You are insufferable, witcher,” he murmurs in the sudden closeness. And just as suddenly, he turns them so it's Geralt’s lower back resting against the table’s edge. “What I will do to you is more than you deserve.”

“Is that a promis—”

A chuckle rumbles from inside his chest when Emhyr shuts him up with hard lips over his beard-rough mouth. 

The hand that twists in his hair keeps him from going far. Not that he wants to—or _could_ at all, with how Emhyr boxes him against the heavy table and practically swallows his tongue with relentless demand. 

Geralt meets his drive, but only halfway. He is quite happy where he is, just letting his fingers roam where they please. He warms them on the inside of Emhyr’s waist, teases under his embellished shirt. His poor cock is trapped by Emhyr pressing him against the table with his entire frame, and that’s fine. That can come later. He loves to take his time.

What he doesn’t take into consideration is that Emhyr, for all the patience he’s proven capable of during their night, has none left for this. When he’s met with Geralt's unhurried pace, he ends the kiss with a mouth-watering suck and in the next second, he takes the witcher's cock roughly in his hand. 

At the first stroke, Geralt's eyelids flutter. One of Emhyr’s fingers bears a ring, and the cold of it rubbing up his length makes his toes want to curl.

“You—why do you keep such a tight _grip?_ Fuck.”

He’s answered with a hum and a second stroke. “It’s not too tight.”

Of course it’s not. Emhyr is judging his every reaction now, down to a precise degree. If Geralt’s face twitches more towards a grimace, he changes tactics until it smooths to melting butter. 

It is both too much and not enough. 

“I don’t—want to come _yet,”_ he pants in a slight shake to his voice. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t.” Out of Emhyr’s mouth that sounds like a threat. Geralt’s cock gives a hearty throb at it. “I will see to that much later, after you’ve forgotten every bit of your sarcastic wit, every word except my name.”

Geralt still can’t blush, but his face sure warms up like he’s stuck his head inside an oven.

“Emhyr,” he rasps, blinking quickly as the hand wrapped around his cock returns to its brutal pace. 

Emhyr loosens a low chuckle. “That’s a good start.”

He’s taken further to the edge, so close to spilling, and right as he feels his insides tighten, Emhyr lets him go. Lets him _breathe._

Then, when he’s no longer gasping, that hand returns as firm as ever.

It’s a dominating, sneaky move. Emhyr acknowledges it in his ear. He figures Geralt appreciates being taken apart maddeningly slowly. 

But he’s got it all wrong. It’s not that Geralt likes being dominated in bed. It’s that he likes to please his partners. He wants to give them what they want most—and for a lot of them, it’s taking charge when they’ve never been able to. 

Geralt wants to satisfy Emhyr, while Emhyr wants to break Geralt from the pleasure, believing _that_ would please him most. They’re dancing a wild circle around each other, and knowing it to be so, the witcher struggles to breathe between withheld laughter and stimulated arousal.

The flicker of that devilish hand over his cock stops. 

“Are you, for some reason, laughing?”

The incredulity in Emhyr’s voice pulls his lips high into a smile.

“Don’t be offended. It’s nothing bad.” At Emhyr’s questioning stare, he whispers, “I’m not a puzzle trap like you. This thing happening between us, you approach it like a mission. But I don’t have a strategy for this. I go with my gut.”

He waits a second to take in the gold brown of Emhyr’s eyes. The black of his pupils swallows up much of it now, but it still glitters orange under the room’s many candelabras. He’s never known those eyes to be soft, or unfocused. They’re always brimming with such unmatchable intensity. 

Right now they feel ever so softened. 

“And what is your gut saying now, hmm?”

“That you need to stop thinking so damn hard about things. This,” his fingers caress over the tented fabric of Emhyr’s pants, “Isn’t as complicated as you think it is.”

Emhyr frowns. He’s tense from having spent the past however many minutes calculating Geralt’s responses, his physical queues—all for moot, because the witcher doesn’t care about being a winner or a loser here. He just wants to enjoy himself, for _Emhyr_ to enjoy himself.

But maybe Emhyr doesn’t quite know how to do that. In which case, Geralt will have to guide him through it.

“Hey, step back.”

Frown deepening, Emhyr obliges with a single backstep.

His confusion is palpable. Whyever would they need to distance more if they are both seeking carnal pleasure? But that’s him still overcomplicating the moment. 

Geralt goes down on his knees. Wordlessly, Emhyr lifts one eyebrow. 

“It’s not what you think it is.” By that, Geralt means some sort of surrender or deliverance of power. And he knows Emhyr would think of _that_ first, even when sex is what’s on the table. 

“Then what, pray tell, is it?”

Geralt’s answer is to pry the front of Emhyr’s trousers open to reach his cock.

Needless to say, he caught Emhyr by surprise, going by the whip-crack speed of hands knotting in his hair. 

He takes his time, laying tentative licks around the crown. Not many lovers expect him to enjoy giving head, but he does. He likes the texture, the feeling, the clear scent of his partner’s enjoyment. Would Emhyr ask him to, he’d gladly do it all night. 

His lips wrap around the hard length with careful attention. It takes but a second for him to adjust, before he sinks down till his nose meets warm skin. 

The feeling of Emhyr’s pulse on his tongue draws a content hum out of his throat.

On pulling back to start a mellow pace, the hand at the back of his head clenches hard for him to stop.

_“Geralt.”_ At his name, he looks up. The strain in Emhyr's voice is new, and absolutely _delightful_ to hear. “If you do not want this to end soon, you will seize that.”

“Well,” Geralt says, a touch more rough than before. “Did you like that?”

“You know very well I did.”

“Mhm,” he nods, nosing the spit-wet cock before his eyes intentionally. “So why stop?”

“I have a different end to the night in mind.”

Yes, he hinted something towards that point when he was playing with Geralt’s near-bursting cock.

But see, Geralt doesn’t have a strategy. He has a mind for improvisation. And the ludicrously expensive sofa a foot from Emhyr’s knees is big enough for two. Big enough for two people to lounge on it, actually, and soft like a pillow stuffed with goose feathers. All through the night Geralt thought it would sooner swallow him whole than let him escape, which is just perfect for him to push Emhyr into falling back into it without fear of hurting him.

The push comes unexpectedly, so Emhyr goes easy, if a little spine stiff. The man obviously does not like his plans ruined. Of course, he won’t be able to go anywhere with the weight of a witcher over his chest.

Atop his new perch, Geralt feels a heart pounding to the rhythm of a soldier's march beneath his thighs, and a slowly creeping caress of bold hands over his naked bottom. It’s nice—those rings of his really work him up. He would love to have them on his cock again.

It’s just that, well. He can still see the wheels turning inside Emhyr’s head, and that just won’t do.

“Emhyr,” he groans a little breathless, grinding his hips into Emhyr’s for emphasis. “Give that overthinking head of yours a rest.”

Emhyr huffs, but he makes no move to sit up or shake him off. “What would you have me do then?” 

“How about you tell me where you keep oil? There better be some in this room.”

There is, fortunately. Though on Emhyr’s word, it’s not for what he intends. That’s never discouraged Geralt from getting railed in unusual places, with less than questionable oils. He’s a witcher anyway. His body has survived worse. 

Emhyr doesn’t need to know that. This at least looks like good, clear oil. 

Reclaiming his comfortable position atop Emhyr’s torso—and just as well, Emhyr replaces his fingers over his hips—Geralt dips his fingers in the pilfered jar and begins working himself open.

It’s dull work, simple and familiar. He can chance shutting his eyes to the world. Every so often he nudges against the over-sensitive knot inside himself. That, combined with the slight, pleasant burn of stretching himself just a tad sooner than he’s prepared for, is its own indulgence. 

Whatever Emhyr sees of him is locked behind the curtain of his eyelids. There are hands anchored over the jut of his hips. A cock—still slightly damp from Geralt’s earlier efforts—poking against one of his cheeks. Geralt’s own hardness leaves very faint traces on Emhyr’s fine silk shirt. His own bit of encouragement for Emhyr to take it off to not stain it.

But if Emhyr minds, he doesn’t show it. It might rile Geralt up more that he stays dressed as he fucks him. And maybe Emhyr already figured that, what with his targeted observations. 

At the third finger, a questing hand leaves his hip to slip further behind him. He jumps as one of those searching fingers nestles with his own and, with the slick gathered there to ease the way, presses past the first knuckle.

“Em— _fuck,”_ he gasps, the sudden fullness leaves him breathing harder. Emhyr’s other hand guides him down to take more of it, and he only barely manages to stay composed as the added digit spreads him open. “Emhyr,” he starts again, but the _‘please’_ gets stuck in his throat as a fifth tries to wedge itself in. 

That’s far too much. He has to stop there and pull out of himself.

It gives Emhyr room to take their place. 

He’d used far too much oil on himself to stay on the safe side, which works to award Emhyr with a quicker time slicking his cock and pressing far too easily into him. 

Geralt’s eyes fly open, and he's greeted with the sight of Emhyr’s fervent gaze, his pillow-fluffed dark hair. “You’r _uh,”_ he warbles into nonsense, as right then, the cockhead breaches past his yielding ring of muscles, and the rest of Emhyr bottoms out with a single stroke. 

The couch spins into the ceiling and he blinks, realizing they’ve flipped and now he’s laying on his back, sinking into the sofa’s welcoming embrace. Emhyr is still buried as far as he can go, but from his new position, he can manipulate Geralt’s shaking legs higher, move them up and around his waist for a better, deeper angle. 

And _oh,_ is it a deeper angle. 

He’s thought before was too much, but this—Emhyr drives into him hard and fast like he is but a strumpet in a backwater tavern. Somehow, on every thrust, he brushes the sensitive mound inside him. Geralt _swears_ he can taste release. It’s precise down to an art, and quickly bringing him to an inescapable edge. 

_“Emm’r,”_ he moans, voice broken and rough, wide eyes rolling their way into the back of his skull. His hands, they fish around blindly for something solid to grip, and finally find purchase on both of Emhyr’s arms low on the sofa. They’re like steel rods. Unbreaking, unfaltering. 

It’s then that he becomes aware of the bruising clasp of fingers over his waist. Emhyr has been so mystifyingly quiet. Though it's hard to listen past his own embarrassing noises, Geralt hardly hears anything from him, nothing beyond a shuddering breath. His watery vision blurs all the details of his face. But, in the tightness of Emhyr's hold, he feels restless, trembling fingers. 

A wave of heat spreads from the inside of his thighs, up to his neck. His skin breaks out in gooseflesh around the burning touch of those hands. He can’t focus on anything other than his cock neglected over his hip. It throbs for attention, but Emhyr doesn’t part from his single-minded focus to attend to it. 

And it doesn’t matter. Release knocks the air out of Geralt’s lungs—just from _being fucked._ His back arches out of his volition as he spills over his own chest. 

He groans pitifully feeling Emhyr fully draw out. “No, no,” he pants, only half in the moment but still very desperate to have him stay, “In...I want—”

His mumbling cuts off into a hiss as Emhyr pushes back inside him, pounding him even harder than before. 

If Emhyr says anything, he can’t hear it over the blood rushing to his head. He can’t hear anything over the cushions being crushed around his face. 

Right as his body starts to complain from real discomfort, Emhyr stills against him, falling on top of his chest with the softest of noises next to his ear. He wouldn’t call it a hug, but with his legs dangling above Emhyr’s waist, and Emhyr’s arms fitted around him, it’s certainly one tight, heavy embrace.

Geralt’s insides burn white-hot. It takes his heart a good while to settle down from its rabbit-fast pace.

After what seems like the entirety of the night passing in a flash, Emhyr lifts himself up on sturdy elbows to peer down at him. 

“Quite refreshing,” he sighs, turning over onto his side, “To have you reduced to agreeable babbling.”

“Yeah...yeh.” Geralt waves dismissively with flagging strength. “I concede defeat, whatever that means.”

So Geralt lost the game— _both_ games. But he won the night. Beside him, the emperor wipes a hand over his sweat-dotted forehead. His hair is no longer carefully combed back. Half his clothes are in disarray, with his collar mussed up and a few buttons of his dress shirt popped out of place, possibly torn off by Geralt’s clawing.

Those gold brown eyes, ever impassive, now look a little dazed in the light. 

He makes for a beautiful, debauched sight. A sight for the witcher alone to appraise.

Turning on his side, Geralt gifts Emhyr his biggest, fattest grin. 

“We should play gwent another time.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me screaming [@seventfics](https://seventfics.tumblr.com) on tumblr and [@the_sevent](https://twitter.com/the_sevent) on twitter.


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